the quiet calm of love
by Jessica L. Pearson
Summary: there are moments - spoilers for 2x14


**the quiet calm of love ; pg-13 ; 1,803 words ;**

**there are moments**

**warnings: spoilers for 2x14 (he's back) if you haven't seen it**

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_so much fun after that last ep because Donna's face, I just quit life_

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The doors slide closed behind Jessica and Harvey halfway wonders why Donna hadn't tried to get on board, too, and then he remembers what he was going to ask her before they got on a tangent. He clears his throat, buries his hands into his pockets, considers forgetting the look he saw on her face at of the corner of his eye when he told Jessica she looked beautiful. It's all a tangled web, one that he's sure if he tries to cut through it, it will be too strong and thick and he'll get caught, and he certainly won't be able to escape it.

He rocks back on his heels, shifting his gaze back to Donna's face. He takes note of the way her eyes won't connect with his and it surprises him a little. Her stern gaze is how she wields most of her power.

He hears her expel a breath, can't tell if it's annoyance or if it's something else - something more, and he tilts his chin downward in an attempt to connect their gazes. It's like something within her snaps and she's back to whatever was there before, only the smile on her face looks painted on. He hates when her smile isn't real, when he knows that she's faking it.

"What is it?" He asks.

Donna lightly shakes her head, "it's nothing. Really, Harvey, it's nothing."

He pauses because it's like she knows that he won't believe it, yet he still doesn't believe her. He's sure that she knows this too. He doesn't pretend that she doesn't know him; he only pretends that he doesn't know her.

"Right," he absently agrees. Donna will tell him what she wants to tell him. She has never been one to hold back much, not when it comes to her opinion on him. He offers her a slight smile, tugging gently at the corner of his mouth, "leaving already?"

"I," she trails off at the tilt of his head. She swallows and her skin becomes warm with his eyes on her. She should be used to his intense look by now, but she isn't. She still isn't, or maybe she isn't anymore. "I think so."

His hand, the rarity that they touch, comes into contact with her wrist, "you can stay. We can have a drink. Listen to Miles Davis."

She laughs, quietly, gently, at his teasing, his fingers long and warm against her skin - "that would end up being an hour of you chastising me about my one mistake."

"Oh, please," he says with a swat of his hand, "I've forgiven you for that. Especially since we agreed if it happened again you would tell me in favor of trying to hide it from me."

There's something off about her, something about how her wit has faded and she let's him get away with the upper hand;

"How about you pick the record and I'll pour the scotch?"

"Deal," he nods his affirmation. She turns on her heel in sync with his step forward and they are easily side by side. His hand awkwardly lingers above the small of her back for a moment before he let's it drop to his side. They are barely passed the door to his office when he glances at her over his shoulder. "You need some ice for that hand, Ali?"

"Don't worry, I iced it last night," she counters with a grin.

He releases a breath of relief, one that he didn't know he was holding, when their friendly banter returns. She thinks that he doesn't notice, that he doesn't know how to read her reactions or that they mean something more. There are certain things that he doesn't call attention to because he knows it will be opening a can of worms, one that he doesn't know how to deal with just now.

His fingers feel the spines of his records, searching for the Miles Davis one that she scratched (and he will never admit that it probably means more to him because it has a flaw, smudged by her and forever imprinted into his history like it gives it all meaning). He could replace the vinyl record quite easily, could have given her the okay to replace it, but he didn't. He didn't because he seethed about it for so long, convinced himself that it would be okay, reminded himself that it was only part of her etched onto a part of him for so long that replacing it would make all of the trouble not seem worth it.

"A moment of silence for what was once good," he says playfully, waving the record in the air at her as he approaches the record player.

She looks at him pointedly, "I think you always have preferred drinking alone."

"I prefer drinking with you," he corrects, smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He takes the proffered glass with two fingers of scotch and he knows already that another glass will be in his future. He sits in the corner of the couch, blocking her pathway to the chair, his ankle bone lightly touching her thigh as he crosses one knee over the other. "I'll be nice. I'll let Miles Davis go."

"It's been three years, you should," she counters. She turns slightly, her hip and legs capturing his attention and he lets his eyes unintentionally follow the length of her long legs to the floor. He should profusely apologize but he's never been one who apologizes well when it's something that he wants. "I'll get you a new one."

"No need. I've grown accustomed to this one," he replies cheekily. He notes that she won't sit. He knows it's because she's anxious, because they almost had a moment and she rightfully had mistaken it as such, but he knows better by now than to give her any kind of compliment that is beyond work related. He knows because it will take them to places that they don't belong, not yet. He swallows, lips dangerously close to his glass, "sit."

She says nothing in return just takes a long swig from her glass but makes no move to appease him; he takes the opportunity to sip from his own glass but knows that she will not sit without guidance.

"You look like you want to leave," he comments.

She nearly chokes on her drink and he can tell that she doesn't know how to answer it. He watches her weigh her options: truth versus non-confrontational. He watches her swallow, the way her mouth perceives an unasked question, delivers an unspoken answer and he for a moment he doesn't care about how real the moment in the elevator lobby was, he only cares about how real the moment between them now is.

"Because I won't sit?" She finally asks.

"Because you won't sit," he confirms, "and also because you have this look on your face like you want to run from me. I hurt you. I didn't mean to hurt you but I did."

"All is forgiven," she replies teasingly.

She wants the moment to pass so he plans on letting it go; he reaches out and grabs her by the wrist, "so you'll sit?"

"Are you asking me or telling me?"

He shrugs, tugs on her arm so gently that it doesn't register for either of them. They are just two people who rarely touch caught in a moment in which the warmth between them intermingles. His thumb smoothes over the skin inside of her wrist, fingernail scraping over the metal of her bracelet.

"I'm merely suggesting," he finally replies.

He watches a shiver skate up her spine, the way her teeth cling to each other with each sweep. Silently, he chastises himself because he knows better. He wants to apologize but that would be calling attention to that which they do not speak.

Hesitantly, she sits on the couch - halfway on the middle cushion but not even close to where he is. He watches the glass shake between her fingers and he is briefly reminded of Louis the night before, shaken to his very core by the words that he'd read. Harvey realizes that he is going soft, becoming a man who protects people more openly than he once had.

_Growth and shit,_ he thinks.

She is being weird, avoiding the moments, and he gets why. Everything they've been trying to avoid is peeking out and neither of them know how to make it stop. He's always left it up to Donna, let her take the reins on how far is enough because one thing he's never grasped hold of is lines - they have all blurred for him, after all, he is a taker and hardly a giver.

Whatever she is willing to give, he will take.

"Happy now?" She asks grumpily.

He grins mockingly, "I'm ecstatic."

"well, good," she mutters into her glass.

He quirks his eyebrow, noting that she will be getting to that refill much sooner than he will. He can't have that. He knows that if she reaches the end of her glass that she will leave without giving him room to protest.

"I made a mistake," he starts, "I was wrong."

"You're wrong all the time," she counters, "just no one calls you on it but me."

"That's why I need you around. You don't let me get away with shit."

She shrugs half-heartedly; she's letting him get away with shit now and he wishes she wouldn't. He wishes that she would speak her mind so that he doesn't have to. There's a moment, a brief moment, where he realizes that he wants her to open door so that he can walk through it. She won't, not now -

not when he so desperate needs her to.

He purses his lips together as she downs the rest of her drink. He doesn't pressure her to stay, like in years past when they would listen to his records and laugh. They don't laugh as much anymore. Everything between them is serious and business. He just wants her back.

She sets her glass on the table, hangs awkwardly as she tries to be polite like they aren't comfortable in all aspects. She stands and he wonders if she wants him to stop her, but he doesn't. He won't because this is her right, to flee from him. He knows what he did wrong, knows that he is undeserving of everything she has to offer him.

She doesn't say goodbye, doesn't bid farewell, just turns to leave, but he calls her name before she can get to the door, "you do, you know."

He doesn't elaborate but he's sure that she understands. He thinks the exchange is just them. _So right at all the wrong times._


End file.
